No Ordinary Star
by EBStarr
Summary: Emily, Dean, Teddy, and a Disappointed House that still earns its name. Older and complicated, Emily wonders what happened to black and white.
1. A Late Return

**Disclaimer: **do I need one?  Is this in the public domain?  Anyway, just in case, I don't own the characters, books, &c.

_The gate was closed behind him._

_He didn't look back as he limped away, the imperfection in his stride made only worse by his consciousness of her eyes on his back.  Emily needn't think she was the only one with a scrap of pride to hide the crippling ache of love unreturned._

I don't love you._  She had said it, finally, after allowing him one summer of unabashed hope.  Yes, in all its foolishness and vanity, the hope that he'd always believed he could keep in check had finally taken over.  He'd planned the home, the wedding, the life ahead of him almost believing it might happen._

_But to marry a star to a jarback?__  He might have known it was impossible.  A man destroyed by the ugliness he was painfully conscious of, rendered cynical and misanthropic by the loneliness that never went away.  The ugly do not marry the beautiful; the wretched do not marry those blessed by heaven.  She had been born with a great gift, greater than all his intelligence, all his wit; and those eyes, silver and purple and blue at once, bespoke the mixture of sweet gravity and pungent humor that he fell in love with._

_Even at twelve, she had captivated him.  Not in the way she did now, the obsession that chased him through fevered dreams and stained every breath with bitterness.  That came later, as he watched her gift grow and grew to realize that she never saw the shoulder that everyone else focused on, only himself.  Dean._

_Maybe she didn't notice the shoulder, but she didn't need to, did she?  The mark of his strangeness had slowly marked his personality, becoming what he identified with, what he thought of himself.  The alternative to self-pity is defiance; he grew defiant with a vengeance.  Learned, as Emily later would, to insult fellow schoolchildren with barbs that stung deep and long.  Then to keep others at a safe distance, aware of the dangers of letting them get too close.  Until he peered over the edge of the cliff and a pair of wide, terrified violet eyes stared back up at him. _

_He walked down the lane, holding his misshapen body as straight as it could go.  She deserved Teddy, who could give her a love unspoiled by a lifetime of misanthropy and the wild, irrepressible Priest jealousy…_

~

He couldn't remember that night without a shudder.  She, Emily, she used to call them "white nights."  She always spoke the melodramatic phrase with a little twinkle in her eyes, because she could wake up in the morning and laugh at anything life threw her way.

Yes, Emily.  It had been so many years since he'd seen her.  He'd sent her that wedding present, the height of masochism or maybe just a momentary victory of romantic, unselfish love over the deeper, jealous, angry kind that was more often ascendant within him.  But since then nothing.  They hadn't sent letters.  It was easier that way, for her at least, although the torture never abated for him.

He pushed open the gate to the Disappointed House, so un-disappointed now it seemed positively fat with fulfilment.  He'd promised himself he'd "settle in" before surprising her.  Exercise a little restraint.  But here he was, only an hour after arriving here, and blood was a furious river crashing in his ears.

A cherry blossom brushed his ear as he passed the tree planted by the gate.  It was white, stained red at the tips with the faintest blush.  He had always loved Prince Edward Island in the spring.


	2. Old News

**Disclaimer: **LMM owns all of these delightful characters, unless you don't recognize them, obviously – in that case they are mine.

A/N: I don't have an LMM beta yet, but I've tried not to have any glaring historical / literary inaccuracies.  Feel free to point them out if you see them ;) – all comments & criticism welcome.

**Chapter 2.  Old News**

Emily was washing the dishes when the knock came at the door.  Little Ilse was sitting at the nearby kitchen table, drawing strange, wild imaginings with a stick of charcoal.  She was a sweet child: she drew so many pictures and always gave them to Aunt Elizabeth, toddling into the darkened corner room where her elderly great-great-aunt spent her lonesome days.  Sweet, dutiful, artistic, just like her father.  But she shared a streak of rebelliousness with her namesake: she called herself a "surrealist" and kept the Andre Breton _Manifesto on her nighttable, although the words were too big for her to fully understand._

Wiping her hands on the front of her slacks, Emily said, "Ilse, clear up that table, please, we may have unexpected company."

"True artists don't need to put away their stuff just because there's _company," Ilse said disdainfully.  "Besides, it's probably just Perry again."_

Emily laughed.  "I bow to the superiority of your genius, as usual."  That girl had the funniest little airs.

"Who is that?" came Elizabeth's voice.  Her bedroom was right next to the front door, as she liked to know everything that was happening in the house.  

"I don't know, we aren't expecting anyone," Emily answered as she pulled open the door.  "Probably Perry Mi—"

The drawn, weathered face at the door was as unfamiliar as a stranger's, yet a deep recognition hit her physically in the gut.  She froze for a full second, staring at him, taking in the slight slant of the shoulder, the emerald green of the eyes.  Then she simply stepped over the threshold and hugged him.

His body was thin, bony, in her arms.  He was too tense with shock and reserve to hug her back, but she didn't care; she held him hard.  Only after a long moment, when she was sure she wouldn't cry, did she release him.

"Emily," he breathed, still shocked.

She smiled shakily.  "I missed you so much."  He had no idea how much.

"Yeah."

"Well…  Come in, please."

Ilse looked up from her sketch as they passed through the kitchen and examined Dean with great interest.  "Are you Dean Priest?" she asked.

Emily felt Dean's green eyes turn towards her with curiosity.  "I suppose your mother told you a lot of terrible stories about me," he joked with Ilse.

"No," Ilse said.  "The kids at school talk about you.  They say you went to Africa and lived in a village in the Congo."

Dean laughed.  "No, that's one place I haven't been, yet."

"So… where _have you been?" Emily asked in a low voice as she brought him to the living room.  "By the way, can I get you some tea?"_

"Around," he said shortly.  "And I'm fine, thanks.  Don't trouble yourself."

They sat down, he on the couch, she on a chair.  The center table held a magazine issue whose cover was done by Theodore Kent – not to show off, as this type of thing was normally kept on the bookshelf, but because Ilse often took her father's artwork out to look at it.  Emily wished she could hide it, before Dean saw.

"You haven't written much," she said.

"I haven't had much to say."  He looked around.  "I'm glad you're still here.  I didn't want the house to be disappointed."

"I'm afraid it is anyway."

She stood up and sat next to him, avoiding an explanation of her last comment, though his dark eyes were questioning.  It felt unnatural, somehow, to be so far apart.  But she couldn't think of anything to say.

"I was in America," he said.  "New York City.  I saw a man murdered from across the street.  Right out in the open." 

Emily gasped.  "Dean, I'm sorry.  That's horrifying."

"That's why I needed to see you," he said.  "To reassure myself that there was something good in the world, too."

His eyes were clear and honest as they met hers.  There was deep friendship contained in them, but she didn't have the courage to analyze whatever lay behind that.  "I'm glad you came," she said.

Dean's eyes alit on the center table.  A sudden urge to swear mentally came over Emily, but she sternly resisted.  "Ah," he said, lifting the magazine, and she braced herself for one of Dean's subtly snide remarks.  "Whenever I see those violet eyes in a portrait, I know who the artist was."

After regarding the eyes for half a minute, he put down the magazine.  "And is Teddy around?"

"It's Ted now.  And… no.  He's not here today.  I'm sorry."

"I'll recover."

"We don't live together," Emily said in a rush.

He kept his face straight: no gloating.  For this Emily could almost hug him again; she'd been so afraid he would rejoice to hear the sad story of her failed marriage.  "Divorced?"

"Just separated," Emily said.

"How long?"

"Six years."  She fingered the tattered edges of the old magazine.  "He doesn't use my face in pictures anymore.  He doesn't even paint that much."  It was why they had had to leave each other.  He had lost something – lost that need for the rainbow gold – gradually, reasonlessly sinking into a restless, miserable impotence.  And as Emily kept writing, kept chasing her flash, he'd grown jealous.  Like his mother, he made Emily into the idol and center of his life, and soon the ugliness of that dynamic had been too much for either of them to bear.

"How old is your daughter?"

"A very precocious thirteen."  Emily looked up at Dean.  "She's almost all I have."

"What about Ilse Burnley?  Perry Miller?"

"Perry still comes around sometimes.  But Ilse—"  She choked.  After two years, it was still difficult to speak of her old friend.  "Ilse is dead."

November 4, 2003

A/N: OK, I'm officially the kind of author I hate, leaving unfinished stories up without explaining whether or not I'll finish.  Well, I'm still working on this.  ER stole all my inspiration for awhile there, but now that TIIC at NBC are quite literally killing off my inspiration, I am planning a return to my violet-eyed namesake.

If you want something new to read, chapter 2 was slightly revised early last month.


	3. Wanderlust

A/N: I fixed up chapter 2.  Now the lovely Emily and her friends and foes are floating in timeless oblivion.  She and Teddy are in their late thirties; Dean is an oldie-but-goodie.  

To everyone who's reviewed, positively and negatively, in my off-months: thanks very, very much – to "hmm" for your help with timeline, to Una-Blythe and emmie for constructive criticism, and to the rest of you for your kindness (and to anonymous 327 for caring enough to come back and flame me twice).  Your honesty and insight is really helpful with my writing.  

As for everyone's qualms about Dean/Emily, I have some too – after all, Teddy Kent was_ the_ quintessential romantic lead of my childhood.  I just wondered what might happen if the other one, the darker, sinister figure, got a second chance.  Teddy will be making his entrance very soon though.

OK.  No more boring author talk.  On with the story…

**Chapter 3.****  Wanderlust**

It was Emily who cried as she told the old, buried story.  Dean, though the grief was fresh to him, was silent and stony as she spilled out a few sentences – brief, only enough to let him know what had happened.  The pregnancy (she didn't mince words, didn't euphemize; they were beyond that) and the miscarriage, and the shock.

In the midst of her tears came a knock at the door.

"Don't answer that," Emily told her daughter.

Ilse shrugged and returned to her artwork.

"Emily?" came the unbeautiful, strident female voice from outside.

"Oh, lord," Emily said.  "You don't know my friend Clarissa, do you?"

"Well, no," he said, smiling.  "Obviously."

She wiped a hand across her eyes.  "Am I presentable?"

"As starlike as ever," he said, helping her tuck one frizzed strand behind her face.

"Emily!" the voice came again.

"Coming," she said.

Dean followed her to the door and encountered an intelligent, suspicious face turned upon him.  The woman was medium height and angular, perhaps slightly older than Emily, and her black eyes sparked with personality.

"Clarissa Van Ness," the woman said in a deep, no-nonsense voice, holding out her hand forthrightly, her hand protectively on Emily's shoulder as the latter's tears were still evident.

Her grip hurt his hand, and he smiled out of sheer surprise.  "Dean Priest," he said.

"Jarback," she deduced.

He was less than pleased.  "That's right."

"Clarissa," Emily warned in a low voice.

"Oh, come, come, Mr. World Traveller is too _unconventional _to bow to formalities, I'm sure," Clarissa said.  "May I call you Dean?"

"Go ahead," he said, amused now.

She nodded briskly.  "I'm Clarissa.  Now, are you tagging along with us to the benefit?"

"Benefit?" he said, feeling a slight twinge of dread.  If Emily had grown into a society lady, he had come back for nothing.

Emily smiled.  "It's for Perry's campaign."

"Prime minister?" he queried with a twist of the lips.

"No," she said.  "Just the local legislature.  He wants to stay in Blair Water…  Anyway, there's to be a dinner tonight at the Blair Water Inn, and I'm sure you'll be able to find a seat."

He hesitated.

"My treat," she wheedled.  "I haven't seen you in years, Dean!"

"Your Aunt Elizabeth would have called that expression 'making eyes,' Emily," he said.  "I think I have no choice now."

He could see the beginnings of that slow, honest smile breaking onto her face, but Clarissa was watching him sharply and said, "Now that you've fulfilled the requirements of chivalry, shall we go?  It's just an outdoor tea, so I _suppose_ that outfit will do."

"Thank you very much," Dean said with a twinkle in his eye.  "I was hoping you'd approve."

"Well, you're quite welcome," she retorted.

"That's enough," Emily said.  "Let me make sure Ilse is going to be all right here for the afternoon, and then we'll go.  Don't bicker while I'm gone." 

Emily finished a few quick remonstrations with Ilse and came back, where her friends were waiting innocently.  As they walked outside, Dean went ahead and heard the older woman whisper to Emily, "Is that Mr. Emerald Ring?  Not much to look at, is he?"

He strode quickly ahead before he could hear Emily's reply.

 When Perry Miller saw who had accompanied Emily to the party, his face went rapidly through several expressions and landed on jocular welcome.  Just like any politician, Dean thought wryly; except he could see the tight lines of unhappiness around the lips.  For a moment he felt almost sympathetic, and then brushed off the sentimentality of it.

"Dean Priest," Perry exclaimed, slapping Dean jovially on his bent back as if they were old, dear friends.  Dean stiffened.  "How _are _you, my friend?" Perry asked.

And this was the boy of Stovepipe Town.

"Well enough," he said.

"Come back to Blair Water for good?"

"I've been thinking about it."  Beside him, he felt Emily start in surprise.  "I find I've lost some of my wanderlust," he explained.  Truth was he hadn't even thought of it, until he heard that it was over with Frederick Kent.

Those violet eyes were upon him, searching and wondering.  Deliberately he turned his face away.

Later he noticed how Emily stayed close by Clarissa, how the other women accepted her only as an outsider by virtue of Clarissa's acceptance.  What an old-fashioned place; they still thought of marriage as something permanent, everlasting, and blamed Emily for the demise of hers.

Dean felt a catlike smile flicker onto his face.  He wondered whether Emily ever regretted the provinciality of her life; whether she understood that had she gone to live in the anonymity of a city, she could have let her soul wander in that wild freedom it craved.

They left early.  Emily bid a subdued good-bye to all and waved to Perry, who was occupied with a crowd of friends.  Then she came to where Dean was standing – at the edge of everything, a cynical observer – and said in a low voice, "Walk me home."


End file.
